


Three old men and many layers of lasagna

by elzierav



Series: The Lasagna Series [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: A little bit of fluff, Bottom Clover Ebi, Double Penetration, Gift Fic, M/M, OT3, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Trans James Ironwood, lasagna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28315911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: “We’ve made a mess,” Clover summarises succinctly, sitting up onto his feet to contemplate the splatters of miscellaneous sauces across the bed sheet lasagna.“Yes, eating in bed isn’t the cleanest,” James observes, raising a brow that almost touches the silvery metal band atop his forehead.“I can show you how to eat cleanly,” Qrow retorts, playfully slipping into Clover’s lap.“Please enlighten us, Professor Branwen,” the headmaster muses.
Relationships: Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Series: The Lasagna Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073786
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	Three old men and many layers of lasagna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [complexhero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/complexhero/gifts).



> Merry xmas to a dear friend and OT3 master! Hope you have a great day Complex!
> 
> Enjoy the smut ;)

Qrow stirs awake, the delectable scent of fuming tomato sauce taunting his nostrils. Pushing down the layers of blankets piled atop his body, he sits up, a slight tremor rippling across his limbs. His body still aches from the consequences of almost drowning in icy water earlier in the day, and from… subsequent, rather straining activities he and his new boyfriends partook in. 

Wait, boyfriends? Is it too childish, when referring to the leader of Remnant’s largest and most technologically advanced army and his trusted second in command? Is it too early to call them as such, given that good friends who sometimes awkwardly hold hands and had mind-blowing sex together a grand total of once? But none of these concerns matter right now, because there is the warm scent of tomato sauce.

And hot lasagna. 

The spectacle that greets him is a sight to behold - for Clover carefully extracts lasagna from its packaging, meticulously laying the layered pieces side by side along the metal side of Ironwood’s torso, lying flat on his back on the other side of the bed. The fire Dust function on the General’s metal body is in full effect, causing the cheese to sizzle and melt. Each bubble popping is an enticing music to Qrow’s ears, releasing a greasy scent of ricotta and mushroom and vegetables, and the shapeshifter finds himself swallowing audibly, unable to stop his own salivation.

“Morning, beautiful,” Clover murmurs, momentarily turning away from his delicate work to face Qrow, a genuine smile twinkling in his eyes. “Feeling hungry?”

“Who wouldn’t be, when faced with all this?” 

Molten cheese, crimson sauce spill their way over to the flesh side of James’s chest, covering darkened scar tissue and alabaster mounds of sculptural muscle. Yet, the headmaster is collected, solid and steady as ever, barely reacting at the hot food searing his skin as he serves as a human-shaped dinner table for his lovers. 

“Pretty bird,” the Captain says, “fancy a nipple?”

“I believe you mean a nibble,” James corrects, the faintest hints of a smile on his lips as he’s acutely aware of two pairs of eyes intently staring at the relevantly exposed part of his body.

“Sorry, my tongue must’ve slipped.”

“There are much more interesting places it could slip into,” the General offers, perking up to capture Clover’s lips in a hot, sloppy kiss. 

It’s a mess of clashing teeth, and Qrow’s heartbeat accelerates at the sight of each brush of chapped lips, at each touch of chaotic tongue tips. Every ticking second, his heart wants, craves, needs a piece of the action, a piece of the lasagna. The lasagna that’s slipping slowly but surely down Jimmy’s defined abdomen as the two military men are too busy making out to notice. 

“Uh guys? Not that this isn’t incredibly hot to watch, but the lasagna’s hot too, shouldn’t we dig in before it gets cold?”

“Mmh… I agree...” Clover mutters, peppering kisses down the pale column of James’s neck before swiping a tentative tongue along a sauce-stained collarbone with an appreciative slurp. 

Qrow can’t wait any more, playfully licking off the cheese smeared onto the brunette’s cheek before taking a small bite of lasagna over Jimmy’s shoulder. Each layer is soft undertooth, releasing its tasty fillings - oily tomatoes, spicy onion, crunchy mushroom, chewy ground beef. As he pulls away, melted tendrils of cheese seemingly stretch as infinitum from his lips, streaking the grey of Ironwood’s steel chest with white. The cheese is elastic, the cheese is everything, the cheese is luring him back in for another bite, like a cheesy string of fate he can never escape, never disentangle himself from. 

So he takes another mouthful. And another. And another. 

Only when he accidentally headbutts Clover does he realise they’ve made a mess. It amazes him, just how prim and proper and perfect the Ace Op behaves in the field, his gaze held high and brimming with resolve like a hurricane trapped within a glass bottle, his back ramrod straight even if that’s the only straight thing about him. It amazes him, because the Captain is an unapologetic mess of sauce splodges and diced veggies clinging to his tousled hair, and it’s cute, and it looks delicious, and he looks utterly unashamed as if eating lasagna off their boyfriend’s body were no more unusual than his morning routine, and that’s delicious, and he looks delicious.

Qrow, however, is more self-conscious. About eating cleanly. About not wasting food. Where he grew up, one can’t afford to waste food. It is a matter of survival. One has to lick everything carefully, patiently until the last drop of meat juice, the last speck of sauce is gone, until the plate shone so shiny that it attracts the bird's eyes. Qrow can do shiny. Qrow can do licking. His tongue can grace each angled plane, each sharp crevice of the plating that covers James’s chest, taste buds sensing the smooth metal - salty, greasy, burning, pulsating with the nervous energy of the fire Dust just beneath the surface. 

From the corner of his field of vision, he notices the General trying to nibble at the lasagna on his shoulder, attempting rather clunkily to tilt his arm and slide the pasta toward his mouth, messing up his usually well-groomed beard in the process. That should not happen, that cannot happen, that must not happen, and Qrow is not about to let that happen. 

So he gives Jimmy a hand - or more accurately, a nudge so that the lasagna tumbles into the right direction. A nudge, followed by a small bite of cheese topping. Just a small bite. How that ends up with a string of fate and cheese connecting his mouth to the headmaster’s, Qrow’s not sure. How that ends up with their lips against each other, slick with olive oil and burning with passion as their tongues desperately dart out to taste each other through the rich flavour of lasagna fillings, Qrow’s not sure. Not that he cares. Not that anything matters right now. His eyes slide close, and he melts into the kiss as helplessly as molten mozzarella. 

Qrow may be self-conscious, but Clover is efficient. Clover is nothing but pure Atlesian efficiency under flawless skin. Clover doesn’t stop, never stops until he gets the job done, and in this case, the job is eating all the lasagna all the way down his commanding officer’s torso, down his abdomen, carefully sucking all the cheese off the curve of his hip bone. 

Clover may be efficient, but he pauses. Face to face with the General’s crotch, he pauses. The lips that stares back at him are warm, wet, enticing - yet he pauses. Did Qrow know? The shapeshifter doesn’t seem surprised. After all, James and Qrow have had an epic bromance laced with evident sexual tension for years, since long before Clover had known either of them. Clover is just lucky to be here. Clover is too lucky to be here. 

Clover didn’t know, but this changes nothing. The Ace Op has liked James since he met him, and this changes nothing. All that matters is them, here, now, and the humid lips that Clover wants to pleasure and worship. Only, Clover is so lucky that sometimes he cannot believe his own luck. Is this real? Is this really real? Is he really being allowed into this intimacy, this burning intimacy, this devouring intimacy between two men who’ve known one another, loved one another, trusted only one another with the deepest of secrets for so long? Does he really have a place here, now, between two jigsaw pieces that fit so perfectly together, or…

Then Qrow’s body presses flush against Clover’s back, Qrow’s body is an answer, Qrow’s body is a gravity that steadies him, anchors him, keeps him in place. For this is the place where he belongs, this is the place where he can be loved, adored, trusted. The shapeshifter’s nimble fingers rub circles against his back, massaging away the tension in his muscles and the worries in his mind. 

The Operative inhales sharply as calloused digits, used to wielding the impressive Harbinger as if it weighs nothing, delicately run down his spine, gracing each bone and muscle protrusion with surprising tenderness. Suddenly, Clover is aware of the scent of James among everything, among the lasagna and the oil and the sauce - James, his James, Qrow’s James, the warmth inside him so near and prone and wet for his lovers. 

Qrow’s fingers are a question now, hovering over Clover’s entrance until the brunette responds with a silent nod, his cock twitching in eager agreement. The first finger that probes Clover’s hole is surprisingly warm, and for a split second the Specialist wonders if Qrow is using olive oil as lube… before a second lengthy finger penetrates his behind, reducing his mind and body into a moaning mess. Utterly inspired, the Captain’s tongue darts out to trace the contour of Jimmy’s opening, causing his superior officer to entirely melt into the mattress. 

James is beautiful like that, all the stress and tension gone from his previously nervous body, from his usually crispated prim and proper powerful frame. Cobalt eyes flutter rapidly as delectable gasps escape greasy, kiss-swollen lips, flesh and metal fingers clutch the bedsheets like a lifeline, even toes curl up at the tentative touch of Clover’s tongue tip. Emboldened by the reaction he elicited, Clover ventures deeper, eagerly bobbing his head as his tongue travels up and down the space between his commanding officer’s lips, taking in the tightness, the wetness, the everything. 

Then Qrow inserts a third finger, and all certainties are wiped from Clover again, leaving him mewling and whimpering straight into his General’s opening, filling the quiet darkness within him with wanton moans. There is an erratic energy to the digits scissoring the Ace Op open, there is a passion that makes him squirm, his spine arching in pure pleasure at each bout of playful pressure as Qrow presses greasy kisses to the back of the brunette’s neck. 

But Clover, ever the model soldier, remains resolved in his demanding mission of eating out Ironwood’s hole, groaning and growling all the way like this is the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, even though the lasagna might have been a strong contender. The Operative is ready when Qrow finally, finally slips inside of him, pushing his butt cheeks open to slowly bury his member to the hilt. Throwing his head back, the shapeshifter lets out a grunt, savouring the hot tightness of his lover’s walls taking in his length. 

Clover is the luckiest man in Remnant, and of course Qrow grazes his prostate on the first try, causing his bones to melt, the bed to melt, the world to melt as stars erupt before his eyes, and soon stars melt too, streaking the cosmos with stripes of light like strings of cheese. Sensing his slackening mouth, the General buries his fingers in unkempt brunette locks and tugs, earning a heartfelt moan and an even more heartfelt tongue twirls against his slit. Soon, the insistent stimulation edges James into his climax, blue eyes sliding shut with continuous pleasure, his opening spasming and dripping against the Specialist’s mouth. 

The only certainty left is the pain, the precision, the sharpness of human nails and flesh fingers and the smoothness of searing steel digits digging into Clover’s scalp. The only certainty is an anchor, a rock, an island amidst a storm, violent enough to knock the stars out of the sky, vulnerable enough for Qrow to whisper sweet, reassuring nothings into the Ace Op’s ear before slender, ringed fingers close around Clover’s length, massaging and kneading with infinite tenderness. 

There is heat within the palms of Qrow’s hands, there is coldness at the point of contact between the Captain’s erection and each metal ring, there is too much and yet there’s not enough, and Clover craves, wants, needs more. He does gets more - one thrust, two thrusts of Qrow’s length inside of him, shaking the Operative to his core and causing him to desperately fuck into Qrow’s hand until the bed shakes, the world shakes and shatters, and all that remains is the blissful blankness that fills Clover’s mind.

Only when his orgasm subsides does Clover register his surroundings - the smell of lasagna and human sweat, the sensation of Ironwood’s hands playing with the brunette’s hair and Qrow’s lips mapping his back with soft little kisses amidst the profusely stained sheets...

“We’ve made a mess,” Clover summarises succinctly, sitting up onto his feet to contemplate the splatters of miscellaneous sauces across the bed sheet lasagna. 

“Yes, eating in bed isn’t the cleanest,” James observes, raising a brow that almost touches the silvery metal band atop his forehead. 

“I can show you how to eat cleanly,” Qrow retorts, playfully slipping into Clover’s lap to capture the tip of his dangling, throbbing length with his lips.

“Please enlighten us, Professor Branwen,” the headmaster muses, ever so gently helping his subordinate into a crouch on all fours.

Qrow seldom takes orders from anyone, including the General of the mighty Atlesian military himself, but he supposes there are circumstances where obeying turns out for the best, such as when it involves giving Clover the cleanest blowjob of his life. Qrow’s tongue is meticulous, leaving no inch of soiled skin untouched as he graces the curvature of the brunette’s member under every angle, lapping from the base to the tip each time before finally taking him into his mouth. 

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Clover moans, teal eyes fluttering at the delectable sensation. 

What isn’t fair game, Qrow thinks, is that his mouth is too full to retort anything snarky - but those indignant thoughts are soon silenced as the Ace Op’s strong arms effortlessly drag him on the bed by his lengthy legs, positioning him directly beneath Clover’s crouched form so that the Captain finds himself face to face with the shifter’s erection, losing no time to take the full member between his saucy lips. 

Clover’s mouth, just like every other part of him, is nothing if not efficient, capturing all of Qrow’s length, all of his width, all of his curvature with no sign of gagging, no sign of ever relenting. There is methodicity even in the way his head bobs up and down the considerable shaft, ensuring each fraction is appropriately graced, adored, worshipped at each iteration. Qrow, however, revels in unpredictability, working up to a quick pace that sends his younger lover squirming with delight before suddenly slowing, the suction of his sinfully hot mouth stuttering to a searing staccato. Clover swallows down a gasp, his tongue flicking sloppily at the top of the shapeshifter’s cock, before the General’s sultry voice only eggs him on further.

“I trust you’re ready for me, Clover?”

There is an adorably confused surprise within breathtaking teal eyes, though Qrow cannot see much more than planes of chiselled abdomen, ever so slightly protruding hip bones, and powerful thighs from his venture point, not that he has much to complain about. 

“Yessir,” the Ace Op tries to moan despite gagging on his lover’s hardening erection, for which James rewards him with a trail of open-mouthed kisses all the way down to the bottom of his spine.

Then, a metal fingertip slips its way into Clover. 

Then, the lighting changes. From Qrow’s venture point, the lighting changes just from the way the Operative arches and twitches, his heavy shadow shifting over the scythe-wielder’s body. Still eager to suck the brunette dry, the shapeshifter relishes in the way Clover’s lips exhale and tighten against his impossibly hard length every time an extra joint of that metal hand pushes him open with an obscenely wet click. 

Ever the paragon of military efficiency, Ironwood’s flesh hands mold the Specialist’s butt cheeks to his liking, giving his prosthetic appendage deeper access. There is a new surge of pleasure when each joint wriggles its way in between Clover’s walls. How many of these joints even are there? The General’s prosthetic is a marvel of technology, each portion optimised to the utmost point of efficiency, even the extremity of each screw sanded down aerodynamically. 

Yet, each finger, each fraction differs ever so slightly in hand to mimic the morphology of the human hand, and there is a structured chaos to the pace at which each joints penetrates Clover deeper and deeper, parting him impossibly wide before slowly  _ flexing _ , rocking the very core of him from side to side with the inevitability of a tidal wave. 

It is the thought, the mere  _ thought  _ that eventually sends Qrow over the edge. The thought of Clover and himself sucking each other off, hot mouths eagerly devouring delectable members with symmetry, perfect symmetry, terrifying symmetry as fortune and misfortune come to a balance, where probabilities come to a balance, where the weight of the world comes to a perfect balance. And James wrecks the balance, with that slow deliberateness that wrecks Clover, wrecks the inside of him until the weight of the world comes crashing, the Operative’s searing seed filling the shifter’s mouth simultaneously as Qrow’s finally, finally overtaken by his own sweet release. 

Qrow can only thank his legendary Huntsman reflexes for dodging out of the way before Clover’s weight collapses bonelessly over him, colliding with the soft bed sheets with a resounding thump that ripples through the mattress. Immediately, James bends down to claim the brunette’s lips with a passionate kiss, whispering sweet nothings against his ever so slightly trembling lips.

“You’re so beautiful, you’ve been so good,” the General muses. 

“That was the best fisting I’ve ever had, sir,” the Specialist replies with a wink and a mock salute against the squishy pillow. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” James smiles, shifting over to kiss Qrow’s pout right off his lips before the shifter can complain about the injustice. 

The headmaster grins against Qrow’s mouth, still tasting the lasagna fillings among the overbearing taste of Clover, his Clover,  _ their  _ Clover who’s rightfully where he belongs, sandwiched between his two lovers.

“I can practically taste your smug little smirk, y’know?” the shapeshifter teases between two stolen kisses. “You know it’s not a competition, right Jimmy?”

“Of course you’d say so, given that I would win,” the General taunts back.

“You know you don’t have to take turns, right?” Clover intervenes, nuzzling into Qrow’s neck while James gently kisses messy chestnut hair.

Perking up, Qrow peers at James over Clover’s shoulder. And James stares back. The seconds that follow are an eternity, stretching with the softness of molten mozzarella. 

Then Clover whines at the loss of heat against his back, but Qrow is here for him, to hold him and to fill him. The shapeshifter’s lips are against his, desiring and demanding, taking advantage of Clover’s gasp to deepen the kiss as his impossibly hard member rams balls deep into the Operative’s opening, filling the emptiness with warmth. There is a hesitation that lingers like liquid lightning, before James returns, thrumming hot metal and scarred, searing muscle pressed into Clover’s back as he spreads the Captain further open. 

Clover somehow registers at the back of his mind it must be a strap on relentlessly rutting into him from behind as a flex of the General’s hips. Not that the brunette’s mind is coherent enough to comprehend or to care about anything other than the fact he’s never, ever been this filled in his life, the fact he’d never thought, never knew, never dreamed he would be utterly filled to this delectable extent. Compared to Qrow’s length, his shape and size growing familiar to the Ace Op’s posterior, this feels… different. And huge. And different. 

And just as he vaguely reflects he could not possibly be filled more, they start moving inside of him. 

There is a contained violence to each of James’s slow thrusts, shaking his subordinate to the core with complete control. A volley of delicious moans escapes the shifter’s lips every time James rubs against his cock, buried within Clover. The Operative fervently eats up each of their little bird’s vocalisations, never breaking the sloppy heated kiss as Qrow picks up the pace, repeatedly colliding against the sore bundle of nerves that brings him impossibly close to yet another climax. 

A gentle breeze of coldness caresses Clover’s humid lips when Qrow parts from the kiss for a fraction of second, licking all the way around the brunette’s lips with just enough strength, just enough softness to draw out a broken whimper. James growls with approval, leaning in closer and slamming even harder against Clover’s over sensitised prostate to cup Qrow’s face, joining their mouths in an all-consuming kiss. 

The orgasm that washes over Clover’s body and soul is inevitable, rocking him like a tempest of unfurled ocean waves, too fast, too cold, too scalding - ocean waves that freeze over, ocean waves that evaporate into a sea of clouds as he floats, drifting weightlessly...

Reality returns in details, details like the General’s lush beard and the scythe-wielder’s scratchy stubble tickling the Ace Op’s shoulder. James has taken to the dutiful task of cleaning off the mess they’ve made with a wet towel, while Qrow still snuggles Clover closely, a bemused light in his crimson eyes. Tomorrow will be time for thorough showering and bed sheet changing, but tomorrow is another day, tomorrow can wait.

“How are you feeling, lucky plant?” the shifter murmurs, teasingly booping the brunette. “You enjoyed the lasagna?”

“Yeah, that was quite… filling. Not bad at all. But homemade lasagna is so much better!”

“Given your cooking skills, I don’t doubt it,” the General states, slipping under the covers to cuddle both of his sleepy lovers. 

“Mostly because we can put all the things we like as fillings, add cheese on top, and call that lasagna,” the Ace Op shrugs. 

“I wonder how much zucchini and eggplant can fit inside...” Qrow wonders, praying for that delicious thought to haunt his dreams as he drifts to sleep amidst his boyfriends’ warm embrace.


End file.
